Chapter Seventy Nine
Afternoon Train To Galway
All too soon, their brief, halcyon stay in the far west of Ireland had come to an end. After what had happened back in Dublin, to both Peadar and to Tom, and with what came after, Sybil would look back on that handful of peaceful, untroubled days which she and Tom had spent here together on the west coast of Ireland with undimmed pleasure; indeed, would remember them with an especial fondness in the troubled months which lay ahead, down in fact to the very end of her life.
That Tom and Sybil had been able to travel over to Connemara to be with Ma in the first place had been due, in part, to Tom shrewdly pointing out to his editor, Mr. Harrington, that on either the outward or the return journey, or indeed on both, Tom could pursue meetings with various local contacts he had made in that part of the country, as well as following up leads on potential stories he had obtained in and around both Athlone and Galway, on the deteriorating political situation and the worsening violence now sweeping the country.
Whilst, on the surface, it seemed that the province of Leinster, including Athlone, was, at least for the present, for the most part comparatively quiet, from Galway and Connaught had come very disturbing reports of gun running, the theft of explosives, and also of the planning of intended attacks on isolated police barracks out in the countryside, much as had occurred at Oranmore just outside Galway during the failed Easter Rising.
The eminent sense in Tom's idea was not lost on his ever perceptive editor at the Independent. It did not take long for Harrington to agree in principle to Tom's well reasoned suggestion, that his highly thought of, increasingly well regarded, and ever more well known reporter make use of the journey over to Galway to do just as Tom had so astutely suggested.
And, since the trip could be seen, in part, as a necessary adjunct to Tom's duties as a journalist, his editor pulled a few strings and made the necessary arrangements for the Independent to pay for the cost of Tom and Sybil's return railway tickets; after all, as Harrington shrewdly observed, even if the situation had partly been of his own making, Tom merited some small recompense from the paper following what had happened to him over at the Inchicore railway works. And, after all, while Tom's articles were well thought of in their own right in many quarters, there was no denying the fact that reporter's own disappearance and his subsequent unexpected release by the IRA had made headline news, prompting a temporary surge in the circulation of the Independent.
On an October afternoon, Tom and his editor had been sitting in the latter's smoke-filled office discussing various matters and finalising details of the Galway trip when Harrington chose to comment, somewhat wistfully, or so it seemed to Tom at the time, that the Independent's circulation figures were now back to the level they were before Branson's kidnapping, At that, Tom had grinned, observing caustically with a chuckle that he had no intention of repeating the experience even in order to bolster the circulation of the Independent.
"Pity" had said Harrington who, with a deep chuckle of his own, had then promptly handed Tom the money for his railway tickets for the Galway train.
In due course, at least for Tom, the journey over to the far west coast of Ireland would prove very useful, leading to a clutch of informative and useful meetings. Some of these were of short duration, others lengthier, held in draughty railway waiting rooms; at least that which formed part of Clifden's red brick built station where Tom and Sybil waited for the arrival of the Galway bound train on their return journey boasted a fire. Others took place in bars or in the more opulent surroundings of the public rooms of railway owned hotels such as those in Athlone, Galway, and at Recess, all three of which belonged to the Midland and Great Western Railway Company, and the last of which boasted beautiful views over Glendalough Lake.
For her part, having been grudgingly granted a week's unpaid leave by the authorities of the Coombe hospital, Sybil thoroughly enjoyed the opportunity afforded to her to accompany Tom and to see more of her husband's native country, although the sad duty which awaited them upon their arrival in Lettermullen was another matter entirely. Even so, Sybil admitted to Tom that she would be very glad to see Ma once again and to lend what she could by way of comfort to her in her undoubted distress caused by the not unexpected, but nevertheless untimely, death of her sister.
On the occasions, of which there were to be several, when, by prior arrangement Tom met up with one or more of his ragbag assortment of acquaintances and correspondents, by mutual agreement with Tom, Sybil made herself as unobtrusive as possible.
Both of them were astute enough to realise that while she was his wife, her presence sitting alongside Tom was likely to prove extremely counter- productive, since there was no disguising the fact that she was English. So as to avoid any difficulties or unpleasantness, while Tom by turns listened intently, asked pertinent questions, and made copious notes, Sybil sat herself down close by, usually in front of a fire, and read quietly until Tom had concluded his meeting.
Had Sybil not been sick twice earlier that morning, even before later that same day they had left Ma's sister's cottage in Lettermullen to catch the afternoon train from Clifden back to Galway, Tom would have simply put his wife's queasiness down to the long bumpy drive over poorly maintained roads, scarcely fit for the passage of the motor which he had hired on their arrival several days previously.
For the time being at least, given the worsening unrest elsewhere in the country, Ma was staying behind in Lettermullen where she had other kin. Somewhat surprisingly, at least to Tom, she had seemed totally unconcerned by Sybil's apparent indisposition, which in itself was unusual. After all, when he was a boy, Tom could vividly remember that he had but to sneeze, to run the slightest of temperatures, to find himself being tucked up warmly in his bed in his room in the little house in Clontarf; liberally dosed with all kinds of medicines, and generally made a fuss of by Ma. But, according to Sybil, Ma had told her that her present bout of queasiness was nothing to worry about.
"So, exactly what did Ma say again?" asked Tom, as they ambled slowly into the small booking hall of the red brick railway station building in Clifden. "Tell me, Syb, please".
"Oh, Tom! All Ma said to me was that it happens; to some and not to others. She told me it will pass" said Sybil. She smiled at Tom, then looked away and glanced out of the window, unwilling to meet his steady, searching gaze.
No, thought Sybil to herself. I can't be ... surely. But then again, we haven't taken any steps to prevent it happening, have we? In fact, rather quite the reverse. But is it usual, for it to happen so soon in a marriage? And, if I am pregnant, how am I going to tell Tom? How will he react to the news ... that he's going to be a father?
"Sorry Tom. What did you just say?"
"Sometimes ..." said Tom. He grinned and shook his head at Sybil in mock disbelief. "I asked", said Tom with infinite patience, "if you were absolutely certain, absolutely sure, that you're all right? You would tell me, wouldn't you ... my darling if something was wrong?" His obvious concern for her was unmistakeable; showed all too plainly in his face, was etched in his voice.
"Of course I'm all right, Tom" said Sybil resolutely. She turned, cupped his well loved face with her hands. "Don't fret my darling ... it's nothing, really. It was probably just something which I ate; that disagreed with me; nothing more than that".
"You're sure. I mean, really? Tom sounded thoroughly unconvinced by her explanation. "God, Sybil, if anything was to happen to you ..." Tom's eyes filled with tears.
"Yes, Tom. Really" said Sybil firmly. She kissed him gently on the lips. "Nothing's going to happen to me, silly. Your concern for me does you credit, love. Truly it does". Sybil gently squeezed her husband's wrist. "Stop worrying Tom, otherwise, you'll make yourself ill! Now go and meet up with whoever it is you're meeting. I'll just sit here quietly and read until you're done".
Sometime later, with Tom's meeting finally at an end, they strolled, arm in arm, slowly and unhurriedly, out onto the gravel surface of the platform of the station. There was a distinct autumnal chill to the air, perhaps more noticeable than it otherwise would have been, because the last few days had been so unseasonably warm. Sybil shivered, leant closer against Tom, who hugged her tightly to him.
Having opened the carriage door for her, Tom helped Sybil up into the third class compartment of the Galway bound train, and then clambered in after her. After having stowed their two small leather suitcases in the luggage rack on the opposite side of the compartment, Tom stood for a moment, looking down at his beautiful young wife. He grinned, and then sat himself down next to her, placing a protective arm about her shoulders, settling back as best he could against the hard unyielding horsehair stuffed upholstery.
From somewhere at the head of the short train there came the sound of a whistle, and a moment or two later, the branch train was in motion, clattering over the web of points at the far end of the platform, bound for all stations to Galway.
"I was just wondering ..." said Tom softly and but a moment or two later, as Clifden receded out of view, lost to sight in the damp skein of mist which had descended abruptly and without warning, seemingly from out of nowhere, just as their train pulled out of the station.
"Wondering what?" asked Sybil. She grimaced, pulled a face at the eddying mist swirling beyond the carriage window.
"Well" said Tom breezily and with a chuckle. "Love, it's nearly an hour till we reach Galway, Sybil. I mean, now that we're together ... here in this compartment ... all on our own... I was just wondering ... what on earth we could possibly do ... to occupy our time".
"Look at the scenery?" suggested Sybil primly.
"The scenery?" asked Tom woodenly. "In this?" He gestured towards the ever thickening mist outside. "Sybil, love, we looked at the scenery on the way over here. Anyway, lakes, mountains, trees ...when you've seen one, you've seen them all!"
"Why, Tom Branson, how thoroughly unromantic of you!"
"Well ..." said Tom. He grinned at her, his eyes sparkling, belying the truth in his words. "I suppose they do have their attractions. But, given the weather, given the fact that I'm sitting here beside you, is that really the best suggestion you can come up with, Mrs. Branson?"
"Well, of course" said Sybil in the most matter-of-fact tone she could muster, keeping her face in profile to him, and trying desperately not to laugh. "After all, what else is there for the two of us to do?"
"The scenery ..." repeated Tom lamely. He sounded so utterly crestfallen, so utterly dejected.
"Yes, Tom. The scenery" said Sybil, with a provocative giggle. She turned her face to gaze lovingly at him. "You see, Mr. Branson, the "scenery" I had in mind to contemplate, is that sitting right next to me, here on this seat". She smiled, laid her hand gently on her husband's thigh, and then moved her fingers slowly upwards. Realising what it was that she was proposing, Tom gulped, swallowed hard. He was sure he had just felt his heart skip a beat at the very thought of ... Damn, that blasted defective valve! His other immediate physical reaction to his wife's delectably provocative suggestion was, in fact, all too predictable; was, indeed, now all too obvious to them both.
"Jaysus, Sybil, we can't. Not here!"
"Why ever not?" asked Sybil mischievously. She grasped the front of his trousers and none too gently.
"Sybil, please ..." moaned Tom.
"From past experience, Mr. Branson, this rather suggests to me that you're not at all averse to the idea. In fact, quite the contrary" giggled Sybil archly. "After all, there's no-one here except ourselves, Tom. And anyway, it was you, I seem to recall, who said we couldn't just sit here ... or at least words to that effect. So, just what did you have in mind? Playing charades? By the way, how far did you say it was to the next station?" Sybil began to nuzzle Tom's throat.
"Bally ..." Tom swallowed hard, as she began loosening his tie. "Bally ... Ballynahinch? Why, I suppose it must be ... eight, no, nine. Nine miles down the line" whimpered Tom, his voice now barely little more than a whispered squeak.
"Eight or nine miles" echoed Sybil wistfully. "Really? That far? Well, then, time enough ..." An impish grin played about the corners of her mouth.
"Sybil Branson, you'll be the death of me, to be sure!" Tom chuckled.
"I rather hope not" said Sybil, now sensuously softly nibbling the lobe of Tom's left ear. "Because my darling ... that would mean ... I would then have lost ... a very dear husband ... the Irish Independent ... its finest reporter ... and I ... I my love ... I would have to answer ... some rather awkward questions ... from the railway authorities".
"What I meant ..." began Tom.
But before he could say another word, Sybil had covered Tom's delectable mouth with her own.